


Closer

by Hectopascal



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl is a sneaky bastard, M/M, yet subtely is lost on him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The teenager AU where Rick and Daryl get stuck in a closet because they’re both charmingly intelligent idiots. And they never learn which is the only plausible explanation for why it happens more than the one time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

The first time—and what Rick is certain is going to be the last time because _surely_ there is only enough stupidity between the two of them to manage it the once—they get stuck in a closet (he thinks about that for a second; tries to say it out loud without laughing himself sick and fails miserably) he and his best, only if you wanted to get technical about it, friend are fifteen years old.

Daryl spends the first minute too pissed off to be of any help in getting out of their predicament, swearing up a storm so loudly in the tiny space that Rick’s ears twinge and ripping at the hanging coats in the closet like they just insulted his mother, tearing them off the hangers and stomping them into the floor.

It’s moderately useful only in the fact that it clears up a bit more space for them to be trapped in, but now the floor is bumpy and misshapen and an accident _waiting_ to happen, but Rick is focusing on the positive things in the situation okay because he is stuck in a fucking closet with his best friend who he may or may not have secretly carried a torch for ever since that whole nightmare of puberty deal went down.

That aside.

After the first minute, which Rick spends leaning awkwardly against the far wall trying to minimize the chances of Daryl’s blindly clawing hands tagging him more than they absolutely have to, Daryl calms down enough to notice that, hey, it’s a really small fucking closet and he’s been smacking Rick in the face trying to break the damn door down.

Of course he doesn’t say sorry like a normal person. Rick thinks he might actually be incapable of it. Daryl’s apologies are always half-hearted at best and manage to sound vaguely insulting.

The more Daryl knows he’s in the wrong the worse he gets, so Rick isn’t even remotely surprised when he just mutters, “No fucking space. Didn’t mean to hit you. God, could you try to be more in my way?”

Rick snorts and shoves at what he thinks his Daryl’s shoulder, moderately gratified when Daryl curses and stumbles in the dark. There is the sound of zippers and buttons moving underfoot and a distinctive swish of whatever the hell raincoats are made of as Daryl trips over one of the garments he threw to the floor.

Daryl shoves back naturally and wow, Rick never knew how very uncomfortable walls were until one was pretty much holding his entire body weight. He falls and goes down, banging his elbow on the way; legs kicking out, half in retribution, half instinct, and Daryl comes down on top of him.

Words are exchanged.

Daryl says something derogatory like, “Clumsy-ass moron.”

Rick responds with, “Well, if you hadn’t been such a dickbag—”

And for all that they are teenagers and supposed to be developing a sense of maturity and all that shiz, when Daryl kneels on his arm trying to get back to his feet—all but cutting of the circulation and mother _fuck_ that hurts!—on purpose like the ass he is, Rick sees no other alternative but slugging him in the stomach.

They tussle, swearing mildly at times when one of them lands a particularly nasty hit, but laughing breathlessly all the while because this is fun. A game to them. And maybe they’ve never had the most conventional of friendships because Rick is fairly certain normal friends (the ones he’s seen on tv anyway) don’t beat each other up in the name of entertainment and then refrain from touching at all ever in every other circumstance.

Also he is fairly certain that normal friends don’t kiss. But this is a very recent development.

One second Rick is chuckling and thinking that he should try to roll them (no telling how it might work in such a confined space, but he was _sick_ of the odd ends of winter jackets digging into his back) and then the next Daryl is trying to suffocate him.

Except that isn’t quite it. Daryl’s hand is around his neck yeah, but he isn’t squeezing all that hard, just holding him steady—firm is the right word for it—startlingly cold and heavy against his windpipe.

Then he shoves Rick’s head _hard_ against the floor and Rick is about ready to give in with a certain amount of ill grace when out of nowhere there is lip on lip contact—as in Daryl’s mouth is suddenly trying to occupy the same space as Rick’s mouth—and Rick can’t think anything beyond a bewildered, _The hell?_ And right on the heels of that thought a faint, _Oh, that’s quite nice._

Daryl pulls back, muttering darkly under his breath. Rick actually makes an effort to listen to him (which, funnily enough, is a fairly accurate description of their past relationship), hears nothing more enlightening than, “Fuck. Fuck you, you fucking fuck—” and tunes him out to work this out for himself.

Okay. Back up. What just happened? A kiss, obviously, though it was more of an angry mesh of lips and teeth than the gentle exploration with lots of tongue Rick has _maybe_ fantasized about a time or two. All right then. Rick can deal with this.

“Um,” he says intelligently. “What?”

Daryl growls low in his throat—actually _growls_ , his chest rumbles with it and everything, good God that should not be as sexy as it is—and the air from his mouth is suddenly whooshing into Rick’s ear, moist and shiver-inducing.

“How thick can you fucking get, Rick? Swear to Christ, we’ve got the most oblivious asshole in the whole damn world right here.”

Rick is almost insulted. Worst case scenarios flash through his mind in a split-second of absolute mortification.

Daryl knows Rick has a hugely embarrassing crush on him and is tormenting him for the pure hell of it. Any moment now the door will open and the whole of Rick’s class will be standing outside, all of them in on the joke. He can almost _see_ the camera phones held up, immortalizing his humiliation for later uploading to the Internet. Only that might be too cruel, even for Daryl at his worst.

Daryl is angry at him for some reason—his moods can swing like the tides with only a fraction of the predictability—and has gotten it into his head that this is appropriate punishment. He’ll feel any second now that Rick is enjoying it more than he should instead of reacting with disgust and verbal threats.

Daryl is just dicking around and when they finally get out of the closet Rick will have to go through the rest of his life pretending that this never happened, not speaking about it, not acknowledging it in any way, and trying hard not to think about it.

Fat chance of the last happening as this is definitely registering as solid gold in his spank bank. Oh man. He’s so screwed. So totally, utterly, completely screwed that it’s not even funny.

Or… _Or…_ The thought comes so slowly that for a second Rick doesn’t even recognize it as a valid possibility. Or…Daryl _likes_ him and that’s why he’s kissing Rick out of the blue like this.

In a closet.

Rick mulls that over while Daryl continues a litany a complaints that he has tuned out almost completely. What are the chances, really, of having his stupid little crush returned?

Hell, Rick isn’t willing to wager that more than half the time he spends with Daryl that Daryl likes him as a _friend._ Period. Which is actually really pathetic when he thinks about it that way so he isn’t going to.

He shoves the whole thing away with a mental push and then is brought with an abrupt jerk back to the reality of (closet-Daryl-kissing-what?) when Daryl digs his fingers into Rick’s side where he _knows_ Rick’s ticklish.

“Are you listenin’ to me?” Daryl demands. 

He still has a hand around Rick’s neck which pretty much guarantees him Rick’s full attention, especially since he’s not altogether convinced that Daryl won’t get frustrated and just start squeezing, but he has pulled back far enough that Rick can look at his face in the darkness without the outline of it blurring. His eyes seem to gleam, two pinpricks of reflected dim light.

Rick swallows convulsively and hopes Daryl doesn’t feel it. If he were smart Rick would say something placating, get Daryl away from the vital points, and then maybe make a break for it—the door wouldn’t hold up to a desperate charge, he’s certain—and not stop running until he was five states away.

Rick’s never been very smart where Daryl is concerned, which is the only possible explanation for why what comes out of his mouth is a drawled, “Not really. No.”

Instead of getting pissed—which Rick has already prepared himself for—Daryl only huffs a quiet, invisible laugh.

“You’re an idiot,” he says and damn if he doesn’t sound fond.

“I know you are, but what am I?” It’s a childish, instinctive reply and the first thing to come to Rick’s mind which is a good enough reason in and of itself why it _shouldn’t_ be the first thing to come out of his mouth but it’s too late now.

“Mine.” Daryl says shortly.

Huh. Rick blinks. Daryl sounds serious. That’s…new.

“Are you mine too?” Rick asks curiously.

Daryl snorts. “No shit.”

Huh. Rick blinks again. Okay then. He wonders if they’re dating now. Naw. That would be too ridiculous. The whole day is surreal enough as it is without opening that particular can of worms.

“You gonna kiss me again?” he asks instead.

“You want me to?” Daryl’s weight seems to increase as he splays himself more fully over Rick. Rick feels more than sees the inquisitive head tilt, the one that means Daryl is trying to puzzle out some nuance of behavior he doesn’t quite grasp.

Rick doesn’t say a word. He lets his body, the pooling warmth low in his groin, speak for itself.

“You want me to.” Daryl concludes and damn if there isn’t a note of triumph in his voice. “Yeah. I can do that.”

And he does. He does it…quite well.

Oh, and _there_ is the tongue Rick’s been expecting and every single one of his dreams, all of his pathetic little boy fantasizes crumble like dry dirt in the face of the real thing. Daryl burns them straight out of Rick’s mind until he’s the only thing left and it’s better than anything Rick’s ever had before.

Make no mistake he had _tried_ to get the strange thoughts he’d been having about his best friend out of his mind. Tried with a sophomore, Lori, and a fellow junior, Shane, but neither had fixed the problem permanently.

And now Rick knows that nothing ever will.

He’s never going to get the taste of Daryl’s skin—salt and sweat and something uniquely _Daryl_ that reminds Rick of car engines and grease—out of his head. He’s never going to be able to forget how Daryl tastes licking into his mouth, the hint of stale coffee his breath carries. And he is _certainly_ going to remember what it feels to have Daryl grinding against him to get off, or grinding back with equal fever.

Later the blissed out edge will fade some when they have to find some way to clean themselves up before whoever unlocks the fucking closet door finds them with, literally, their pants down.

For now though, Rick is riding a high and he intends to stay there. So he reaches up, grabs Daryl’s neck and draws him down (still mildly amazed that Daryl lets him do it) for another crushing embrace.


End file.
